Рита Браун: Homeward Hound

Vixen.The female fox.

Walk.Puppies are walked out in the summer and fall of their first year. It’s part of their education and a delight for both puppies and staff.

Whippers-in.Also called whips, these are the staff members who assist the huntsman, who make sure the hounds “do right.”

CHAPTER 1

“Ouch, dammit.” Sister Jane stepped down from the small stool. “Sorry.” She patted Aztec’s neck, her chestnut gelding.

“I thought you were apologizing to us.” Betty Franklin, also braiding her horse, Outlaw, leaned over his neck to look at her friend and master.

Sister Jane Arnold was master of The Jefferson Hunt, had been for over forty years. She loved being a master, making decisions, solving problems. She did not love braiding, however.

“I can do that for you.” Tootie Harris, early twenties, a whipper-in, offered.

“I know you can, Angel, but I think I should braid my own horse.”

“Arthritis.” Her huntsman, Shaker Crown, braiding his horse, teased her. “I’m starting to get it. Anyway, I thought this is what children are for, braiding.”

“You know, he has a point.” Betty was standing on her low stool to reach the mane, a small bit of thick mane between her fingers, the clipped yarn in her mouth, which she took out to speak.

“Think it will be a lot of people tomorrow?” Weevil, the new, gorgeous, male whipper-in, hailing from Canada, asked.

“Weevil, usually is.” Sister climbed back up on the stool. “Matador is standing nicely for you.”

“He’s a good boy with a silky mane. Makes it easy,” the handsome blond replied.

“Just think, everyone who will hunt tomorrow is doing as we’re doing. I like to think of that, all of us trying to make our horses beautiful for Christmas Hunt,” Betty said.

The large end stable doors opened, Sam Lorillard with Rory Boone came in, shutting the doors behind them.

Sam pulled off his lumberjack cap. “Cold out there. Got off work early.”

“Cold enough in here.” Shaker tugged at Showboat’s mane with a short metal comb.

“We’re here to polish the tack. If you all are determined to braid your horses, we might as well get working on the tack.”

“The only reason you two are doing the tack, and there’s a mess of it, is it’s warmer in the tack room,” Betty good-naturedly said.

Sam, the brother of Sister’s gentleman friend, grinned. “That’s why we’re doing it.”

The two men, friends from their days spent living under the downtown bridge by the train station, stripped off their coats, walked into the paneled tack room. Both men had endured detox and counseling, although at different times. Neither of them could get a good job once clean because too many people remembered their misdeeds when drunk. Both wound up working for Crawford Howard, a man with an outlaw pack of hounds. As he hailed from Indiana, he took a chance on them and both Sam and Rory were grateful. Crawford and Sister, often crossways with each other, declared a truce thanks to Sam’s steady work and putting in a good word for Sister. Sam and Gray, his brother, had known the tall, slender woman most of their lives. She and her late husband would give them horses to ride as kids. Sam, younger, went to Harvard. Gray, a few years older, in his middle sixties now, had received a full scholarship to the Darden School of Business at the University of Virginia and from thence to a large accounting firm in D.C. where he rose to partner. Gray, one of the first African American men to reach such power in our nation’s capitol, wore it lightly. The Lorillards were bright people, as was their aunt Daniella Laprade, often married, each husband richer than the last. God knows, in her nineties she might do it again.

Tootie ducked into the tack room for a moment. “Sam, go light on the oil.”

“Will do.” He smiled at the beautiful young woman, almost a carbon copy of her knockout mother.

Tootie returned to Iota, her horse.

“Master, thank you again for loaning me Matador.” Weevil, finishing the braiding, picked up the stool, placing it alongside the stall. “He’s got so much scope.”

He used the term meaning “the horse could jump both high and wide,” much desired in the hunt field.

“It’s good for him to be ridden,” Sister replied. “I only hunt him about once every two weeks. That will change next season because I really must retire Lafayette.”

The gray Thoroughbred, in his stall, shouted, “I am not retiring. I can still outrun any horse on this farm. Just forget the retirement crap.”

Raleigh, a Doberman, and Rooster, a harrier, Sister’s house dogs, both stretched out on benches, tormented the older horse. “Retire. Eat apples and carrots all day. Hey, maybe you can take up golf.” Raleigh bedeviled him.

“Horses don’t play golf, idiot,” Lafayette answered quickly.

“I know that,” the sleek Doberman, wearing his blue jacket, fired back. “You can escape and run all over the golf course. Think of the newspaper coverage.”

Rooster joined in. “Loose horse destroys greens, tears up Ninth Hole.”

“Claims he was chasing a fox,” Raleigh added.

Lafayette snorted. “Better that than dog poop.”

Before this could further develop, Sister’s cellphone rang. She stepped down, punched the icon, walked into the tack room.

“You’re going in there to get warm,” Betty called after her, “leaving us out here to freeze.”

“Ronnie? What’s up?” she asked the hunt club’s treasurer on the line. Although a lawyer, Ronnie liked being treasurer, though he had Gray’s help when needed.

“Forgive me, last minute but I’d like to bring a guest from Deep Run.”

She dropped into a director’s chair while Sam and Rory dismantled a bridle each to completely clean it and shine the bit. No shortcuts.

“Of course, you know I love Deep Run.” She did, too, as Deep Run was the grand and glamorous hunt outside Richmond. “Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so. Gregory Luckham. I’m lending him Pokerface.” He named one of his horses.

Sister sat up a little straighter. “ The Gregory Luckham?”

Now both Sam and Rory turned to look at her.

“Yes, we worked together in Richmond, both of us on the Side by Side fundraiser. I found out he hunted. Would you like to join us for dinner at Farmington Country Club?”

“Thank you, Ronnie, no. You know how crazy it gets before one of the big hunts but of course, he is welcome. I look forward to meeting him. Before I forget, Betty and Tootie talked me into braiding with red and green yarn for Christmas. You know I’m not much for that kind of thing but they told me I was an old fart. To my face. Well, Betty, not Tootie, so I relented.”

Ronnie, one of Sister’s late son’s best friends, stifled a laugh. “You are always correct and I try to live up to your standards, but a little bit of Christmas cheer isn’t too much a violation of tradition. Good decision.”

“You really think so?”

“Sister, you always make the right decision. Which reminds me. Have you looked at the Weather Channel?”

“The snowstorm?”

“They’re predicting it for tomorrow afternoon.”

“I saw that, too, so I figure we’ll hunt for two hours, two and a half, then turn back. I spoke to Kasmir about it and we both decided to move the Christmas breakfast to Boxing Day. This way people can get home ahead of the storm. You know how weathermen dramatize any hint of trouble, so this should calm the nervous.”

“Good plan. You were smart to send the email early.”

“Ronnie, instant communication means everyone wants a decision pronto. How do I know what will happen tomorrow? The Weather Channel predicts a giant snowflake will fall upon Albemarle County. Everyone panics. I like to think things through and one thing I know I can’t think through is the weather. Have you ever noticed how wrong those forecasts usually are?”